


Misty Strife

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 02:50:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Apahth warkit," he says, and stops. He has his pride, after all, and blinks himself a little more coherent. "I'm awake."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misty Strife

The room tends to slip sideways, streaks of pink-white light following everything like -- like those stupid trails that used to follow the pointer-icon, way back when dinosaurs used computers, and Rodney knows there's a name for that stuttering splash of white, which is now careening towards a pale, pale gold, but he can't think of it and can't really remember why it's important anyway as the room begins to pulse very, very faintly.

"There's a name," he says, because struggling on is what he _does_ , pointless or not. "For mice. For pointers! I can't remember what it is."

He's long past pensive and into whiny, but if he's too tired to remember why it's important, he's certainly too tired to care that he sounds like any child kept up long past bedtime, each hitch of breath coming perilously closer to an outright sob.

A vision of soft beds and cool sheets surrounds him so suddenly it's visceral, wrapping him up in the comfort he so desperately craves. The beds on Atlantis aren't as good as the ones from his childhood, the only indulgence he truly remembers _from_ said childhood, lacking the downy depths of a mattress so big it nearly swallowed up the child trying to sleep on it, pillows fluffy enough to curl up in like a cat, with blankets that were always warm, never too heavy --

"McKay."

A rough push to his shoulder brings Rodney abruptly back to earth. He blinks, choking back a moan as he carefully shifts into a new position. It isn't Earth, of course, it's a planet Rodney can't remember the name of and doesn't bother trying: everything is paring down to essentials, when his mind isn't slipping off into the somnolent quiet that hovers around them, a black, taunting cloud that offers the same promises as bitter deep cold, warmed to unnatural comfort.

"Apahth warkit," he says, and stops. He has his pride, after all, and blinks himself a little more coherent. "I'm awake."

"Say that five times fast," Sheppard whispers -- hums, really, because when Sheppard is tired the world doesn't go fuzzy gray, memories crowding a mind that normally has no place for them, images wrapped in gauze that's fur-soft to the touch. When Sheppard is tired he goes distant, lost inside a head that almost never cracks itself open to provide the answers Rodney wants, just tightens and tightens, withdrawing until it swirls down a drain Rodney can almost picture, pure white against rusted metal, dotted with holes.

"Don' think I can." Tired. He's so _tired_ , leaden pressure weighing on his sinuses, binding him more tightly than the knotted rope burning red bracelets into his wrists and ankles. "Sheppard."

Sheppard's eyes glitter in the dark of moon whenever they open, a hint of life Rodney clings to. The way long lashes rest against skin washed pale and sallow is frightening on levels he cannot name, an urgency providing enough strength to inch his way a slow, frantic bit closer.

"Sheppard!"

His head shoots up. "'M awake!" he protests too much. "'M awake."

Sense of time is usually the first to go when Rodney's this bone-dragging, mind-numbingly tired and the ambient light from outside provides nothing in the way of markers. It could be minutes, or days before rescue comes, the very timelessness encouraging Rodney to slump back down against the wall, thought forgotten, because why bother thinking. He has no idea when rescue will come -- if it comes -- because trapped as they are, there is no rescue, no next moment, no tomorrow. There is only here, with hard, dirty floors that numbs his backside and make his shoulders ache, the burn of skin rubbed raw a distant memory, knowledge that floats without truly affecting him, observations only, like the stars Rodney never cared about, not truly, because stars were just _there_ far away, taunting him with the things he never even dreamed about, because dreaming implied some hint of want, or imagination of worlds left unexplored and Rodney has never wanted anything but what his own Earth could provide, the comforts he's never had, not truly, not until he stepped into another galaxy, leaving everything behind by himself, diamond-clean and bri -- 

Sheppard's shoulder is skin and bone, blood banging ferociously against his own. "Okay," he pants, groaning lightly as the world around them shifts and resettles, waves the cannot find the current of, "that woke me up, too. Ow."

"Mm," Rodney says, muzzy. Boney isn't bad as far as pillows go, almost as good as his mother's, the one he always stole when he was so tired, _so_ tired, wanting comfort he never understood how to ask for let alone recie --

Pain bursts orangy red, flaming through his mind, but only for a moment. Then it, too, fades, gone under the haze of _sleep_.

"I'll bite y'r ear 'gain," Sheppard breathes into said ear. "Don' think I won't."

Rodney imagines neither of them are talking coherently, but the slurs are familiar by now, a language only they two can understand as they drift and dance in their own private hell. "Tease."

"Thassme. Lieutenant Colonel Tease."

"S'good, that. Be on your tombstone, or elligy. Ella. Eula."

"Eulogy?"

"Yeah. That."

"Mckay. _Rodney."_ Somehow, Sheppard summons that superhuman strength that makes him the one Rodney sees when his eyes close, the darkness unending, twisting and turning until Rodney's head rests over the slow, slow beat of his heart, warmth easing the shake that's been part of them both for so long that Rodney can only note its absence.

"We're gonna get through this, Rodney," Sheppard promises, pillow-soft because he's always quiet when he means it, like volume would shatter his word before it's ever given. "Not much longer."

"Don' know that," he protests, except that's wrong. Sheppard does know that, and not because the military's drilled the slow sweep of a ticking clock into his mind, painting it with indelible ink on squishy-soft gray.

No, he knows because Rodney trusts that he knows, that he'll count down each second, minutehourdayyear and tell Rodney when it's time, when he can finally let the lead-weights on his eyelids go, dig into the blackness that waits patiently along the edges of his mind, because they'll win, they always win, and it's only Sheppard who knows when it's safe for them, for Rodney, for both of them together.

Swallowing past a tongue gone thick with thirst, Rodney leans in as close as he can and holds. He _holds._ For as long as it takes.

The explosions do little to phase them, but they _are_ still awake, eyes gritty and aching with sleep, unable to walk, but able to cling, to trust the rescuers that take them away from the ropes and the cells and the people who offer poppy-sweet liquid that makes images bloom blood-red and true behind closed eyes, stealing secrets locked away in heart-shaped boxes made of wood lined with diamonds and naquadah.

"McKay." The whisper is still rough, teasing the edges of consciousness Rodney can't let go to, a balm against the bubbling panic that churns within his stomach. "McKay."

The infirmary is quiet, the steady hush of forced air providing the whiteness both of them have learned to fear, rhythmic noises that fade into nothing as time takes it's due.

Carefully, fragile with something that isn't fear, no it's not, Rodney shifts until he's right on the edge, sighing with relief when a body settles warm and solid behind, breath gusting sweet against the back of his neck. There will be comments later, nagging, whispered words that pinch and scrabble at the misunderstood, but Rodney doesn't care about that, can't care -- all he knows is the emptiness that surrounded him and mocked the echoes that shuddered within his mind, taunting him with threats that only the rushing warmth of breath and blood and soothe, is finally, blessedly gone.

"Sleep?" he asks.

Rodney fears his dreams, the thoughts he's learned better than to acknowledge even to himself. Atlantis' cool walls provide safety from transmission, but the drug is still there, twisting among his blood cells and poisoning his mind.

"Sleep," Sheppard says, as forcefully as a man who's gone nearly four days without sleep can manage, and Rodney is out like a light.


End file.
